


Mid-week Mornings at the New York Bell Company and Summer Evenings in Manhattan

by Eliza49



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:14:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24592864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eliza49/pseuds/Eliza49
Summary: 'There was a time when the men at the New York Strategic Scientific Reserve made jokes about Peggy Carter’s laziness – about how she strolled in like a duchess after everyone else was already at their desks, took lunch breaks that seemed to stretch for hours, and once even asked for a day off due to ‘lady problems.’ It just went to show, they said, that you couldn’t count on women to do this kind of work.Then came the Johann Fennhoff case...'Set between Seasons 1 & 2 of Agent Carter.This fic details how the attitudes of Peggy's colleagues change towards her, and what is going through Daniel's mind between seasons.Chapter 3 deals with what is going through Howard's mind, how he feels about Peggy and Steve, and why he decides to try his hand at becoming a movie mogul...
Relationships: Peggy Carter & Angie Martinelli, Peggy Carter & Daniel Sousa, Peggy Carter & Edwin Jarvis, Peggy Carter & Howard Stark, Peggy Carter & Jack Thompson, Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers
Comments: 12
Kudos: 88





	1. (Prologue) Conversations in the Bullpen

**Author's Note:**

> I will add more character tags for chapter 3

There was a time when the men at the New York Strategic Scientific Reserve made jokes about Peggy Carter’s laziness – about how she strolled in like a duchess after everyone else was already at their desks, took lunch breaks that seemed to stretch for hours, and once even asked for a day off due to ‘lady problems.’ It just went to show, they said, that you couldn’t count on women to do this kind of work.

Then came the Johann Fennhoff case. Afterwards Peggy submitted meticulously compiled reports on all her previously off-the-record investigations, undertaken with no back-up beyond the help of Edwin Jarvis, Howard’s Stark’s butler. Most of the agents in the bullpen read the reports, ostensibly because, although Fennhoff was caught, Leviathan and Dottie Underwood remained ongoing inquiries. Of course they also read them because they wanted to know how Peggy had done it (and because secretly they hoped to learn from the best).

“Jesus, Carter, when the hell did you even find the time to do all this?” asked Agent Wallace incredulously.

“Yeah, don’t you ever go to bed?” demanded Rick Ramirez. “And how come you look like _that_ , on no sleep?”

“You understand no amount of flattery will persuade me to cover your night shift, don’t you Agent Ramirez?” asked Peggy lightly.

“That’s just mean, Carter,” Agent Henry told her. “These ugly punks all need their beauty sleep, whereas clearly you don’t.”

It was at this point that Jack Thompson suggested to Peggy that she consider taking some time off, at once acknowledging her recent efforts, but also putting an end to the other agents’ admiring comments. Daniel Sousa, though he wasn’t sure how he felt about widespread office appreciation of Peggy’s beauty, nevertheless resented the interruption of her moment. He suspected that the offer of vacation time was only made to get Carter out of the way for a while, since her presence amounted to a conspicuous, inconvenient reminder to Thompson of his own borrowed feathers.

Peggy, however, didn’t seem to mind Jack’s intervention. She smiled and replied, “Thank you, Chief. Perhaps I will.”

The office quieted for a moment: the men were yet to call Thompson ‘Chief,’ partly out of reverence for the memory of Roger Dooley, and partly because there was some doubt as to whether flashy, rich-kid Jack Thompson had really earned the title. Thompson’s practiced charm in accepting Senator Cooper’s praise as if it were his due, had sown seeds of division between him and his team. Sousa, having played his own part in Fennhoff’s capture, had felt resentful on his own behalf and on Peggy’s too, and when Thompson’s promotion was made official and permanent, it became clear that others shared this disillusion. Rick Ramirez even went so far as to mutter to Daniel, with unexpected soldierly comradeship, “Guy practically pissed his pants when they were shooting at us in Russia. It was Carter got us out.”

Butch Wallace, meanwhile, was the kind of seasoned field operative (having previously worked for the NYPD) whose behaviour was quietly influential with less experienced agents: once, he had scarcely seemed to know that Peggy Carter even worked in the building, but when he joined in the initial, scattered applause for her after the Fennhof case, and called out, “Good work, Carter!” the whole bullpen followed his example; and when he still referred to Dooley as ‘the Chief,’ whilst often avoiding referring to Thompson at all, that too set the tone for how the New York agents saw their new boss.

Amidst this prevailing wariness, Peggy’s matter-of-fact endorsement of _Chief_ Thompson carried weight. It was clear that Jack Thompson himself thought so, and he shot her a sharp, suspicious look, as if trying to detect hints of mockery or insolence in her face and voice. But Peggy simply opened a file and began to work, leaving Thompson to knock a jaunty tattoo on the wood of her desk with blustering flourish, then return to his office. He glanced nonchalantly around his team as he went.

“You’re a class act, Carter,” remarked Agent Wallace, once Thompson’s door was closed.

“Everyone deserves a chance to prove themselves, Agent Wallace,” said Peggy briskly. “Besides we have a job to do. We can’t afford to waste time squabbling with one another.”

“Like I said, class act,” reiterated Wallace appreciatively. Peggy smiled at him fleetingly then continued to work.


	2. Daniel Sousa’s Morning at Work

Somehow, on the one vacation day Peggy took, she still ended up coming to work for the morning.

“Isn’t this your day off?” asked Daniel Sousa. He was not really surprised when Peggy explained that she had had some more ideas on how to track Dottie Underwood, and that she wanted to set these in motion as soon as possible.

At 10.30am she presented him with a list of possible disguises to be communicated to ports and airports. At the same time, they both conceded that Dottie might not want to leave the country just now, given her current, uncertain status with her own former handlers (as an operative known to, and wanted by, the enemy). Peggy suggested alerting banks too: if she was indeed an agent without an agency, Dottie would be in need of funds, and she was more than capable of pulling off a heist, to alleviate hardship and boredom simultaneously.

“A _nun_?” queried Daniel, reading through the Dottie-disguises list.

“It would appeal to her sense of humour, and the robbery of a convent was reported to the 9th Precinct on Tuesday. Apparently the thief raided wardrobes.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Afraid not. Sounds like Dottie, don’t you think?”

“It sounds crazy, so yeah it does,” agreed Daniel, resuming his perusal of the list. At length he asked, “Don’t _you_ own a red fedora, Peggy?”

“I do,” replied Peggy evenly. “It may be a long-shot, but she said something whilst we were fighting at the hangar that got me thinking.”

“What did she say?” asked Daniel, more for the sake of hearing about Peggy’s thought processes than Dottie’s threats.

“Oh, just the usual fantasist, homicidal delusions,” said Peggy evasively. “It was probably nothing.”

Peggy spent another hour making notes, whilst her fellow agents made little attempt to disguise the fact that they were keeping an eye on what she was doing. Daniel knew that most of the men in the New York SSR office were now openly curious about Peggy’s work and her service record. It was also clear that more than a few of them were personally interested in Peggy herself: “Goin’ somewhere nice, Carter?” they would ask her slyly at the end of her shift. “Yes, Brooklyn,” she would reply (or something equally vague and breezy), “Goodnight, gentlemen.” Later they would rib one another over who was the most sweet on her and joke that no knucklehead amongst them stood a chance with a fancy dame like Carter.

“Sousa might,” said Thompson at one point, and whilst the other men continued to laugh and kid, Daniel and Jack exchanged uneasy, appraising glances. There was something knowing, perhaps even sympathetic, in Thompson’s eyes, but there was also a hint of competitive challenge in his look of recognition. Daniel didn’t much welcome being understood by Thompson, or the idea that he and Jack might be sharing similar feelings when it came to Peggy Carter.

Before the Fennhoff case, Daniel had believed that he and Peggy were friends. They were both overlooked and underestimated by colleagues, both subject to careless, callous office taunting, and they had forged an alliance as a result. Then it became clear that Peggy was keeping secrets from all of them, and Daniel had not only sided with the other SSR men in assuming her guilt, but had actually led the investigation against her. On the surreal occasion when he had marched her through the New York office in handcuffs and accused her of treason, Peggy was by turns coolly complimentary (“You’ve assembled a solid bit of evidence here,”) and coldly contemptuous (“You think you know me… the girl on the pedestal transformed into some daft whore!”). And in the aftermath of Dooley’s death, Peggy’s exoneration and Stark’s near-catastrophic hypnosis at the hands of Fennhoff, there had been no opportunity to talk to her about what had happened, or to offer any kind of explanation and atonement.

Peggy had recently claimed a previous engagement when Daniel had asked her to join him for after-work drinks and, not wanting to risk a second rejection, he now harboured the hope that a quiet night shift would provide an opportunity to talk. Dooley’s assumption that these duties ‘weren’t safe for a lady’ had been well and truly debunked when Carter had overpowered a whole team of male colleagues whilst resisting arrest, and Peggy now worked regular night shifts along with the rest of them. (One or two agents still resented having been knocked out by Peggy’s fists – and the occasional, frisbeed dinner plate – but the prevailing attitude towards her fighting prowess was one of self-deprecating approbation: the humorous refrain, ‘Or we could just send Carter,’ was often heard in the bullpen when an assignment demanded maximum manpower.)

Unfortunately, Sousa’s plan to smooth things over with Peggy had as yet come to nothing, since they had been rostered to work together only once, which was the night Agent Jackson had arrived from Washington with a long, complicated transmission intercepted from Leningrad for Peggy to decode. (“We heard Carter was the best,” he explained.) Peggy successfully decoded the message, whilst Daniel spent the shift bringing her cups of tea, avoiding conversations with Jackson about “all those reds” in Hollywood who needed locking up, and dwelling morosely on Peggy’s growing reputation and indisputable brilliance. Peggy, meanwhile, barely seemed to notice his presence, and certainly didn’t require his help with the message – not that Daniel had any insights to offer, since he couldn’t speak Russian and had had only the most rudimentary training in code breaking.

Of course, Daniel did not begrudge Peggy the recognition she deserved. Yet at the same time, he couldn’t help wishing for a return to something of the old status quo, when he and Peggy had shared private jokes and fleeting smiles with each other, and when this was how they both got through the working day. Now that no one was oblivious to Peggy or her abilities, there was no shortage of men happy to chat with her in the bullpen, and Daniel was left to wonder whether he had in any case over-estimated the strength of their friendship. Peggy had apparently never entertained the idea of confiding in him during her investigation of Howard Stark’s stolen weapons, yet at the same time she had believed implicitly in Stark’s innocence, and had willingly turned to Stark’s butler (of all people) for back-up, first aid and allegiance.

Perhaps, after all, Peggy Carter had never really thought of Daniel Sousa as being much different from the other men in the office – men who once insulted or ignored her, who sent her out for coffee and lunch-runs, or told her to deal with their filing. Whilst Daniel knew that he had never made lewd jokes about Peggy’s ‘best features,’ or about how well she must have ‘served under’ Captain America during the war, he also knew that when his faith in her had been tested, he had allowed himself to believe that she must be Howard Stark’s secret mistress, and possibly even a Soviet spy. And whilst he told himself that the evidence against Peggy would have convinced anyone, a secret, persistent doubt remained about his own conduct – about whether he was in fact any better than Jack Thompson, whose repeated response to Peggy’s effortless presence in their midst was to belittle her. Peggy was ferociously intelligent, bitingly witty and always ready for a fight; she was brave, brilliant, beautiful and bewitching, and all of this made a belief in her guilt particularly tempting: it was much easier to accuse her of promiscuity and treachery than it was to admit to the feelings of inadequacy and desire that she simultaneously inspired.

Peggy, meanwhile, seemed to care very little for what her colleagues thought of her. Whilst she had fought hard for the recognition which allowed her to do the work that the men assumed was their right, she had also learned to do without the rewards her male counterparts craved. As she had once told Daniel, she knew her own value, and didn’t need medals or honours to feel that she was good enough. And perhaps, beyond her undoubted intelligence and determination, it was this above all which made her a better agent than the likes of Jack Thompson, because Jack was easily led astray by his own vanity. He could be swayed to do, not what was right, but what was convenient, expected and self-serving. Jack, and other men like him, worked for the promise of distinction and applause, whilst Peggy worked for nothing more than the knowledge that she had succeeded in doing a good job.

If Daniel had placed her on a pedestal before – as beautiful, tragic and misunderstood – this was nothing to how he saw her now. He felt more than ever that Cap’s girl could never be his, though not, as Ray Krzeminski had tauntingly implied, because he had returned from the war with only one leg. After all, none of the men at the SSR stood a chance with Carter, and the reason for this was that Peggy was simply better than they were. She was more brilliant, but also more principled, more courageous, and purer of heart than any of them, including Daniel himself.

*

At length Jack Thompson began to mutter peevishly that it seemed like Carter was never planning to leave, and Peggy replied breezily that she was in fact “off to the pictures with a friend,” that afternoon. 

“Have fun,” said Thompson drily, before informing Sousa that it was nearly time to head out with the lunch orders.

“We’re making _the cripple_ go now?” muttered Agent Henry under his breath, though not so quietly that Daniel and Jack failed to hear.

“It’s his turn,” protested Thompson, stung. Daniel scowled, equally put out, since he was unsure if Henry was complaining about Jack’s unfair distribution of menial errands, or about Daniel’s competence and speed when it came to walking down the street with a crutch, a false leg and a handful of corned-beef sandwiches.

Then Peggy said archly to the office at large, “Do you know, I really had _no idea_ we took _turns,”_ and this made most of the men chuckle, and Daniel grin reluctantly: they were all perfectly aware that Peggy did the lunch run almost every day (although recently some of her colleagues – with slightly roguish displays of gallantry – had taken to volunteering to go with her).

Thompson had just enough grace to look sheepish. Unexpectedly he clapped Daniel on the shoulder: “How about I see you both out? I’d hate for Carter to miss her movie.”

Peggy, Jack and Daniel rode down in the elevator together and walked out into the street. “This is very gracious of you, Jack,” said Peggy sweetly. “Or are you simply keen to make sure that I leave the premises?”

Jack grinned uncomfortably, but hit back with the observation that no one could blame him for keeping an eye on her, given all her recent secrecy.

“But isn’t it splendid that we’re all on the same page now?” replied Peggy brightly, before turning away from both men. “Hello, Angie!” she said smiling.

“Hey, Peggy!” said Angie Martinelli, who was waiting for Peggy underneath a lamppost in front of the building. “You ready to paint the town red?”

Perhaps stung by Henry’s comment that he was “making the cripple go,” or perhaps because he was reluctant to give Peggy the last word, Jack ended up accompanying them down the street, Angie tucking her arm companionably into Peggy’s as they walked. Two blocks away, they stopped in front of a pizzeria which Angie explained was run by her second cousin, where she and Peggy planned to have lunch. Turning to Agent Thompson, Angie gave a mischievous smile.

“So, how’s your Gam Gam doin’ these days?” she asked him.

Jack grimaced. “You told Carter about that, huh?”

“No need to tell her,” replied Angie cheerfully. “She heard the whole thing: she was hiding on the ledge on the outside of the building.”

“Jesus, Peggy!” exclaimed Daniel, genuinely horrified. “You were _three floors up_.”

“I remember,” said Peggy. “Vividly.”

“Wait,” demanded Jack suddenly. “Was all that bawlin’ just so’s you could distract me from Marge, here?”

“You catch on quick, mister,” said Angie drily. “And who’s ‘Marge’?”

Daniel, though he had been duped too, couldn’t help enjoying the dumbfounded look on Jack’s face. Peggy regarded them both, her carefully schooled expression a picture of innocence.

“Hey, we’re stayin’ up late with the Schnapps tonight, right Peg?” asked Angie cheerfully.

“O-oh, if you insist,” responded Peggy. She gave a wriggle of her shoulders & tossed back her hair, as if yielding impulsively to luxurious temptations. Daniel Sousa watched her, fascinated by this incongruous glimpse of off-duty Peggy and obscurely envious that her unlikely friendship with a waitress from Brooklyn should merit such relaxed indulgence.

“Time to go,” urged Angie. “You know what they say – all work and no play makes Peggy crazy enough to climb outa third-floor windows!”

“Well, I expect I should probably avoid doing that again anytime soon,” agreed Peggy. “Good day, gentlemen.” She turned and followed Angie into the pizzeria.

“Can you believe, that kid _tricked_ me?” asked Jack, nonplussed.

“Easily,” replied Daniel, unsympathetic and unconcerned.

Jack shook his head, bewildered, and Daniel relented a little. “She’s an actress, remember,” he added, by way of consolation. Then, always an operative who focused on the mission in hand, he added, “So, how about it, Chief? Now you’re here, are you gonna help carry the lunches?”

Agent Sousa and Chief Thompson proceeded together to the deli on the corner of the block. Daniel was pleased that Jack had come with him, although he knew full well that before they re-entered the bullpen Thompson would hand all the lunches back to him: no one should consider it the Chief’s job to fetch and carry food for the team.

  
*

The afternoon without Peggy passed uneventfully, and was only really remarkable for the number of agents (including Jack Thompson) who sauntered past Carter’s desk, clearly attempting to read the notes she had left there.

At last Wallace simply got up, walked over to the desk, and picked up Peggy’s notebook.

“Hey!” protested Sousa righteously.

“What’s it say?” demanded Ramirez, unashamedly curious.

Wallace chuckled and held up the book.

“She wrote in code!” he declared, in an emphatically satisfied tone.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be: ‘Howard Stark’s Evening Out’ (set later the same day).
> 
> Thank you very much for reading. :)
> 
> (Accidentally left out the very last paragraph of this chapter on first posting. Sorry folks. Have added it in now.)


	3. Howard Stark’s Evening Out

Howard Stark strolled nonchalantly into the bullpen of the New York SSR office, just as the night shift began to arrive. He pulled up a chair, propped his feet on the corner of Daniel Sousa’s desk and waited for the agents around him to stop what they were doing and give him their full attention.

Unusually, this was an authorised visit, since he had come to sign papers confirming the return of all his confiscated possessions, which meant that on this occasion no one pulled a gun on him, or showed any particular sign of wanting to arrest him. Howard, who liked to make an entrance, was relieved and, at the same time, a little disappointed.

“Make yourself at home, why don’t you?” said Jack Thompson irritably, by way of a greeting, “Did Rose let you in this time, or did you by-pass security _again_?”

“Who’s Rose?” asked Howard, intrigued. “Didn’t I tell you, your security stinks? I could redesign it for you – maybe this ‘Rose’ could help me? Hey, where’s Peggy?”

“Peggy’s takin’ the afternoon off. She’s earned it,” replied Jack magnanimously. “And I don’t want a security system that’s as safe as your impenetrable vault, or any of your other crazy, lethal inventions. I also don’t want a system that _you_ can walk through even more easily than the one we have now.”

“I thought we were all friends again,” replied Howard plaintively. “And if you’re worried about safety, then why’d you give Peggy time off? You boys sure you know what to do around here by yourselves? Try not to make too many wrongful arrests whilst she’s away!”

“Very funny, Mr Stark,” snapped Thompson, slamming the door to his office.

Howard clasped his hands behind his head and began to whistle. He was peripherally aware that his timing, at the end of the day shift, was an inconvenience, since it held up Thompson and the other agents who were about to leave. Of course Howard Stark was not particularly accustomed to considering other people’s convenience, and the idea that he was the cause of aggravation – which was in any case only half-formed in his mind – did not give him a moment’s concern. The agents of the SSR (with the obvious exception of Peggy) had caused more than a little inconvenience to _him_ recently, having hunted him for treason and forced him to go on the run, without even the comfort of his butler to mix his evening Gin and It. And now he had timed his visit to the New York office with the express purpose of persuading Peggy Carter to have dinner with him, only to find that Jack Thompson had had the audacity to give her the afternoon off.

Howard was disappointed. He was well aware that an evening with Peggy was never going to end in the pleasurable denouement which he normally expected from dinner dates. However, there were compensations to be had from Peggy which other beautiful women of his acquaintance did not offer: the flirtatious propositions he continued to throw her way were now mostly done for the pleasure of hearing whatever witty barb she might throw back, and although she was undoubtedly gorgeous, what he liked most about Peggy was the sharp thrill of mental stimulation she was able to provide.

Since being exonerated from the charge of treason, Howard had found himself bored and dissatisfied with the sycophantic company of those eagerly claiming that they had never once suspected him. Moreover, the euphoria he had experienced when Johann Fennhoff tricked him into believing that he was about to rescue Steve Rogers, had since been replaced by a profound sense of despondent lethargy. “I know – you’re filled with _ennui_ ,” Angie Martinelli diagnosed sagely one evening, and Howard wondered whether this feeling had in fact been lurking, unrecognised, ever since the crash of the Valkyrie in 1945.

Recently, the only remedy he had found for this condition, besides the obvious balm of willing women and expensive alcohol, was the company of Peggy and Angie, both of whom possessed the rich man’s treasure of being unattainable – Peggy because she was Peggy and also Steve’s girl, Angie because Peggy had said so. (“You are not to make a pass at her, do you understand me? She’s my friend and she’s far too good for the likes of you. And if you were to dally with her, or hurt her, or get her into trouble, _I would shoot you,_ Howard.”) When Howard slyly repeated Peggy’s edict to Angie one day, in the hope that she might protest that she had no need of this protection, Angie looked disconcertingly happy instead. Her reply – that ‘English’ always looked out for her friends – also pricked uncomfortably at Howard’s conscience, since he had a great deal more reason than Angie did to feel grateful towards Peggy.

Howard found his friendship with Angie refreshingly straightforward – she was a fun, pretty girl, who was good at jokes and sympathy, impressed by his genius and his wealth, and appreciative of his generosity. Peggy’s seduction-embargo also made it much more difficult, and less likely, for Howard to ruin all of this, and as yet Angie had shown no propensity to scream at him, throw things at him, or slap him in the face, when he showed up hoping for a happy welcome. Meanwhile, Howard’s friendship with Peggy remained at once disarmingly simple and bewilderingly complicated. The simplicity arose from the unshakeable trust he had in Peggy, whilst the complications arose from the unexpected, contradictory thoughts he sometimes had about her, which were unlike the kinds of thoughts he normally had about beautiful women. These included the absolute conviction that it was much more important to maintain Peggy’s allegiance and respect than it was ever to possess her as a lover, as well as powerful, if temporary, flights of imagination about how good it would be to marry her, and to devote the remainder of his life to proving himself worthy of her.

Howard recognised that these types of fantasy were of a similar order to the extravagant but non-specific ideas that Captain America sometimes inspired in him – for example, that he should seek to be more principled and less selfish from now on, and that he should willingly make some kind of noble sacrifice for the good of humanity. Such lapses into high-mindedness were often rapidly, conveniently cured by Howard making large charitable donations, although they sometimes also drove him to mount further arctic expeditions in search of Steve Rogers, whom he dreamed of recovering and bringing home to Peggy. Recently he had in fact found this aspiration particularly useful when the irrational temptation to prostrate himself at Peggy’s feet overtook him: it reminded him that the woman who had fallen so passionately in love with Steve Rogers would never in a million years consent to marry a man like Howard Stark. He repeatedly came back to this thought with a paradoxical mixture of melancholy regret and profound relief.

Daniel Sousa was making his way across the bullpen, a stack of papers in his hand. “Mr Stark,” he said formally, just as Jack Thompson re-emerged from his office.

“Call me Howard!” suggested Howard genially.

Thompson took the papers from Sousa and slapped them against Howard’s chest. “How about you put your John Hancock on these, _Mr Stark_?” he responded repressively. “We’re not keeping any of your planes, automobiles or lethal inventions, we promise. Not that we ever had them all anyway…”

“Hey, a fella can’t be expected to keep track of _every_ aircraft hangar he owns, now can he?” asked Howard, his expression all innocence.

Sousa and Thompson shook their heads, but Howard spotted some of the junior agents, who were packing up after the day shift, looking amused and impressed. “How many planes do you reckon you have, Mr Stark?” asked one eagerly. Howard was about to reply when Ramirez, in the process of shrugging on his coat, suddenly demanded, “Is it true you once flew Captain America to Austria so he could mount an unauthorised rescue of the 107th?”

Howard grinned. “It’s true _Peggy_ made me do it,” he replied, his tone and memories at once fond and exasperated. “‘Yes, we _could_ be shot down,’” he mimicked sarcastically, “‘but there are good men in need of saving, and Steve can help them, if you will help him. Howard, you may spend your life in a lab making weapons for others to carry, but I know in your heart you are truly a man of courage.’ Sheesh, I tell you, sometimes that woman is downright delusional!”

Now all the men in the bullpen were listening. “The plane was Peggy’s idea?” asked Daniel. “Did she fly with you?”

“You think I’d do something that dumb _by myself?”_ demanded Howard, in a tone that implied he had never done anything rash or ill-advised in his life.

“Might’ve known Carter would have a hand in something like that,” agreed Wallace appreciatively.

The remaining day-shift agents looked pleased with a Howard’s narrative, and it was a combination of generosity, restless boredom and a liking of being liked which caused Howard to do what he did next.

“Hey, how about I buy all you good gentlemen a drink?” he offered expansively.

*

The staff of the Brock Club in Lower Manhattan were more than happy to welcome Mr Stark and his friends, and to offer them a room with a private bar for the evening. Daniel Sousa was a little uneasy about most of the SSR day shift accepting so much generosity from Howard Stark, and was not fully convinced by Stark’s reassurance that he was no longer a wanted man, but could instead be considered an ‘upstanding pillar of the community.’ He was more swayed by Thompson’s argument that if there was anything unethical in accepting favours from Stark, then Peggy would never have consented to live in one of his apartments. “That’s true,” agreed Howard cheerfully. “’Course she and Angie needed to find a place pretty quick, after ten of your men smashed up Angie’s work failing to catch one woman, and then you two ended up marching Peggy outa her respectable ladies’ residence in _handcuffs_.”

Thompson, though easily vexed by Stark’s habitual insolence, was clearly not averse to frequenting the Brock Club – renowned for the wealth and glamour of its membership, as well as the lavishness of its hospitality – at Stark’s expense. Ramirez, Henry and several other agents (whose names Howard struggled to retain) were just as eager, and Sousa soon allowed himself to be persuaded. Agent Wallace also joined them, unperturbed by the jeering comments from the other men when he called his wife first to ask if he was ‘good to stay out’. Howard cheerfully told the barman of the club’s private suite that all drinks were on him, and recklessly suggested that they order three of everything on the menu to try. (Here Mr Jarvis intervened, substituting instead an order which was more compatible with the tastes and number of Mr Stark’s guests.)

Daniel Sousa had apparently taken Howard’s comments on Peggy’s recent homelessness to heart, and he was anxious to make it clear that he had done everything in his power to smooth things over at the Griffith: he had assured the landlady of Peggy’s complete innocence, and even offered the plausible, and the partially truthful, explanation that the case had been one of mistaken identity, with Peggy’s neighbour, Dottie Underwood, the true culprit. Miss Fry, already incensed by Dottie’s departure (without notice, and owing a month’s rent), had accepted this story, but had been unable to overlook the infraction of Peggy having smashed a hole in the wall of her room, which she had done in order to hide Captain America’s blood.

“Yeah,” said Howard, ruefully rubbing at his left eye, “That blood mattered to her a whole lot.”

“So it’s true then?” demanded Thompson. “She really was Captain America’s dame?”

“Oh sure,” said Howard easily. “Rogers was crazy about her. I don’t reckon he knew much about women before he fell for Peggy.” He chuckled. “Kinda like goin’ straight from a drought in the desert to a whole decanter of fine, vintage Macallan,” Howard gestured to the glass of whisky in his hand. “The poor guy really didn’t know what hit him.”

A number of the men laughed, and suddenly Howard became aware of the eager, possibly prurient manner with which Peggy’s colleagues were listening. His own steadfast loyalty to Peggy and Steve, combined with an acute memory of the power and precision of Peggy’s right fist, caused him to reconsider his words. “Hey, look, I don’t mean… Steve wasn’t like me… he didn’t… And Peggy…” Howard floundered momentarily. “Look, they were in love, is what I’m saying. I mean, it was one of those pure, one-in-a-million, written-in-the-stars kinda deals, you know?”

It was clear that some of the men were disappointed, since this was not what they expected from notorious womaniser Howard Stark. Thompson, Henry and Ramirez, meanwhile, looked distinctly uncomfortable, confronted with the fact of Peggy’s devastating, wartime loss, rather than a fantasy of her delectable, wartime sins.

“I guess she took it pretty hard, what happened,” muttered Agent Henry awkwardly. “Poor kid.”

Wallace nodded solemnly, and Sousa looked thoroughly miserable. Howard, who had a pretty good idea what lay behind this dejection, felt a sense of satisfaction, which he dimly suspected was probably unfair to Sousa. But Peggy had been _Steve_ ’s girl: she wasn’t meant for ordinary men, and if she was too good for Howard (which she clearly was), then she was also way too good for any of the lunkhead men who worked at the SSR.

“So then, you and Carter never…?” ventured Ramirez.

“ _Me and Peggy_?” repeated Howard. All the men except Sousa and Wallace were now looking at him expectantly, and Howard was suddenly very alarmed: there was no telling how Peggy would choose to punish him if she ever thought he had contributed to SSR rumours of that kind, and he wasn’t sure he liked the look on Jarvis’s face at that moment either (although at least Jarvis did not make a habit of kicking Russian assassins through windows, or shooting Captain America point-blank in the shield). “Hey, no look, there was never anything like that between us. Me and Peggy are just pals, that’s all.”

“You’re not seriously telling us she’s not your type?” asked Thompson with telling incredulity. Howard, Daniel and Rick Ramirez all looked at Jack, who hastily took a swig of whisky to cover up his own self-consciousness.

“I’m not saying I never asked her,” Howard qualified, remembering clearly Steve’s confusion, chagrin and relief during their conversation about fondue. “Hell, you’ve seen Peggy – of course I _asked_.”

Jarvis frowned conspicuous disapproval at him and Sousa suddenly blurted out, “There’s _no way_ you’re Peggy’s type.” This time Jack, Ramirez and Howard all looked pointedly at Daniel, who in turn took a camouflaging gulp from his own glass.

“Hey! Not so long ago, you all thought Peggy was betraying king and country just because I’m so irresistible!” Howard reminded them cheerfully. Then he added more soberly, “But yeah, I guess you’re not wrong, Sousa – like I said, _Peggy loved Steve_.” Sousa looked glum once again, and said nothing.

Soon plates of food began to arrive – mostly steaks, with an assortment of vegetables, gravies and sauces – and the men dug in appreciatively. Sousa seemed a little half-hearted in his enthusiasm, and Howard found himself chewing thoughtfully and in silence for a while, visited by memories of the war and of his friends. He recalled again the night when Peggy made him to fly to Austria, and how Steve, kitted out in his theatre-prop helmet and shield, had watched Peggy plotting their course before take-off. “You sure you wanna do this?” Howard had asked him. “Yeah,” said Steve his gaze unwavering and almost euphoric. “I do!”

“See, the thing about Peggy is…” began Howard meditatively, before trailing off into silence again.

“What’s the thing about Peggy?” asked Jack.

Howard frowned, trying to find words for the impressions in his mind – not just of Peggy, but of Steve too, who had been shaped by the super serum, by his own circumstances and character, but also by the fact that he and Peggy had loved each other. “Peggy… Peggy always sees the best in people. She _brings out_ the best in people.”

Jack looked at Howard warily.

“She’s heroic and loyal and she gives people second chances,” declared Howard, and Thompson’s frown deepened. He adjusted his tie awkwardly.

Sousa put down his fork and eyed both men speculatively, whilst Howard found himself smiling a little, caught up in his own reminiscence. “Peggy makes men wanna jump outa planes to save the day – and let’s face it, she’s been known to jump outa planes, and save the day herself, a few times. She has ethics and values and honour and all that noble stuff. She believes in people, and she’s the kinda woman who turns a fella into a better man.” Howard paused in his conviction-filled pronouncement; he raised his glass in salute, squinted at it blearily and then downed his whisky. Suddenly he grinned, at once roguish and philosophical, “And _that,_ gentlemen, is why Peggy Carter will always be my best pal, and is _never_ gonna be my typa gal!” He slammed his glass down on the table with a flourish and surveyed his listeners with an air of slightly inebriated wisdom.

“Er.. how’s that?” asked Sousa, confused by this ending to Howard’s overflowing Peggy-encomium.

“Peggy is a _very moral person_ ,” explained Howard painstakingly.

“And… you think that’s a bad thing?” asked Wallace.

“Hell, no – it’s a _great_ thing!” asserted Howard emphatically. “But a man has to be realistic about his own limitations. I may be an upstanding citizen, a great philanthropist and a genius of the highest order…” (“Jesus!” muttered Jack Thompson irritably under his breath). “But I’m not in the market for _complete_ incorruptibility.” Howard helped himself liberally to yet more whisky. “Let’s face it, gentlemen, _virtue_ just isn’t my style!”

*

The next morning Ana Jarvis brought Howard Stark a hang-over cure.

He drank it, though it tasted foul, mostly because he didn’t like to disappoint her. He wasn’t quite sure whether she would be more disappointed by him rejecting her remedy, or by him not being quite as hung-over as she assumed him to be, but either way, he thought it best to meet her expectations. He liked Ana – she was sweet, and mischievous and she made Jarvis happy. Also, Howard had helped save her life once, which was the kind of thought that cheered him up on the days when he was most conscious of the need for improvement in his own behaviour.

Howard considered the events of the preceding night. Without the influence of whisky or the imperative to impress, he was not quite so philosophical about his own character defects and behaviour as he had been the evening before. In fact, the more he remembered events at the Brock Club, the more uncomfortably guilty he began to feel: he had treated most of the SSR day shift to drinks and dinner, and accidentally left Peggy out (although at least Peggy had spent the evening with Angie, which was clearly a much better option); he had talked about Peggy behind her back, and told her male colleagues things about her and Steve (he didn’t think he had said anything incriminating, but he was disquieted by the fact that he wasn’t entirely sure); and he had also left two handsome, eligible men, who clearly had feelings for Peggy, looking depressed and defeated, very probably convinced that they would never ever be worthy of a woman like her (and would never live up to the hallowed memory of her one true love, Captain Steve Rogers). 

The circumstance of Howard himself believing that Jack Thompson definitely wasn’t good enough for Peggy, and that Daniel Sousa probably wasn’t either, didn’t change the fact that it was not his place to interfere. And it would hardly be fair on Peggy if he were to go about warning off every man who might potentially make her happy, just because she and Steve happened to be the best human beings Howard had ever had the good fortune to meet.

Howard sighed disconsolately, flopped back onto his pillow, and then shouted bad-temperedly for Jarvis, who soon came in with a linen suit and a resigned expression. “What’s up with you?” demanded Howard, moodily.

“Nothing out of the ordinary, Mr Stark,” replied Jarvis loftily, as he laid out the suit. “Miss Lana Turner called this morning. She suggested you might choose to invite her out for dinner whilst she is town.”

“Huh,” responded Howard. The prospect didn’t particularly lift his spirits, possibly because he had had several trysts with Lana before, and her wild unpredictability was rapidly becoming predictable in itself. Certainly, Lana seemed like very poor compensation for having missed out on an evening talking to Peggy.

“Hey, Jarvis, do you think _Ingrid Bergman_ would wanna go out with me?” he asked suddenly.

“It’s possible, sir. A great many ladies in the motion picture industry have been persuaded by your charms in the past.”

“Yeah, but Ingrid is sophisticated and European. She’s _classy_ and _smart_ ,” Howard pointed out.

“Yes, that _could_ put you at a disadvantage,” agreed Jarvis mildly.

“Hey!” objected Howard on principle. Then he conceded. “Yeah, she probably wouldn’t say yes. I met her at one of Cukor’s parties a little while back – all she talked about was this Italian film she’d seen, about some priest in Rome fighting Nazis.”

“I’m not sure your description entirely encompasses the story, but I believe that would be _Rome, Open City,_ directed by Roberto Rossellini. Ana was keen to see it, though I was afraid it might be rather too close to home for her. It’s a powerful tale, depicting the courage and suffering of the Italian people in their resistance of the Nazi occupation in '44.”

“God, that sounds like a _terrible_ movie!” declared Howard gloomily. This was, of course, the problem with serious, intelligent women, he reflected – they tended to be interested in serious, intelligent things. And as he’d been at pains to explain the night before, he might have the intelligence part very well covered, but seriousness of any kind tended to become a problem for him after even a short while.

Peggy had recently told him that his greatest enemy in life was boredom, and although he had protested that he led the most interesting life of any man he knew, he couldn’t help conceding the point in the privacy of his own head. He was bored with frivolous sin, because it was so easy to come by, and he was resistant to Peggy’s nobility, because it required long-term effort (and with no guarantee of a return). Virtue wasn’t his style, failure wasn’t his style, and neither was simply doing nothing. All of this led to what Angie Martinelli called ‘ennui,’ or else it led to things that were much worse – poisoned gas, or SSR chiefs being blown up, or Howard stealing Steve’s blood and then losing it when he was abducted by a mad, vengeful psychiatrist. (“I do rather wish, sir,” Jarvis had once opined, whilst cleaning up the aftermath of a particularly messy lab experiment, “That your methods of alleviating tedium were not always so… _destructive_.” Howard very much wished that bad smells and exploding test tubes were the worst side-effects his genius had ever produced.)

He finished dressing and picked up Lana Turner’s number, which Jarvis had left for him beside the bedroom telephone. Unexpectedly, a vague memory of Lana complaining about how under-appreciated she had been at Warner Bros back in the day triggered another, much more intriguing recollection.

He sauntered into the dining room, where Ana had set out breakfast for him. “Hey, Jarvis? What happened to that film studio I bought a while back? Do I still have it?”

“That would be Sedgwick Motion Pictures, sir, a minor studio which over-extended itself in a bid to become a major player in the entertainment industries. I am told it is currently operating under the name Stark Pictures, as per your own suggestion when you bought it, if you recall. It produced a number of moderately successful films last year – mostly featuring cowboys, I believe.”

“ _Stark Pictures,_ huh? I _like_ the sound of that!” Howard suddenly felt greatly cheered up, and he was undeterred by his butler and Man Friday shooting him a foreboding glance. “Hey, what-da-ya-say, Jarvis? You think Ana would like the chance to work on a Californian tan?”

Jarvis looked highly alarmed. “Oh now, sir!” he exclaimed. “I really think you should reconsider. You only recently came out of hiding, you have by no means exhausted the opportunities of this fine city, and I am sure all your New York friends would be most sorry to see you leave again so soon!”

“What New York friends?” asked Howard carelessly. “Peggy and Angie will be fine. They don’t need me and they can keep the penthouse.”

“Mr Stark, I must protest… this seems like a very impulsive scheme and…and… it is extremely _hot_ in California, sir.” (Jarvis offered him his most woebegone expression.)

“But I wanna make a movie!” responded Howard, with a distinct whine in his voice. “With cowboys!” (Jarvis’s look turned withering.) “Hey, come on, Jarvis. California sounds pretty good to me right now. And I‘m probably gonna have that aeronautics contract to sign out there pretty soon anyway - everyone likes my planes. Plus, I was thinking, no one is gonna steal a bunch of film canisters from me, and then try to trick me into dropping them on a city and mass-murdering everyone who lives there, are they?”

Jarvis’s entire demeanour changed at once. “That is certainly true, Mr Stark,” he agreed gently.

Howard looked up at Edwin Jarvis’s face, suddenly profoundly grateful for the sympathy, comprehension and kindness he saw there. “So, what do you think?” he asked quietly.

“I think Ana enjoys sunshine,” replied Jarvis decisively, and with only the smallest hint of suffering of his tone. “I will pack directly after breakfast.”

Howard smiled. Cowboys, he thought serenely, seemed like as good a cure for ennui as anything else he had ever tried.

*

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went with Ingrid Bergman, because Hayley Atwell has always reminded me of her, and because of the Casablanca-feel to Steve’s and Peggy’s lost-opportunities romance.
> 
> Rome, Open City opened in the US in February 1946, and it seems plausible to me that Bergman saw her future husband’s movie around the time Peggy was fighting Leviathan, and recommended it to lots of people afterwards. (I have no idea when or where she did see it, but you can read about the letter Bergman wrote to Rossellini in 1947 here.)  
> https://www.criterion.com/current/posts/2922--ti-amo-an-exchange-of-letters
> 
> George Cukor threw lots of Sunday-afternoon pool parties, which in the evenings possibly turned into parties for men and women in Hollywood who, like Cukor, were gay but by necessity in the closet. Bergman made Gaslight with Cukor in 1944, so I decided that maybe she went to one of his pool parties. I imagine that Howard went to lots of Hollywood parties (of varying degrees of sleaziness), probably making fondue-style pit stops to attend them… 
> 
> If you’re still here, thank you so much for reading this – my first go at posting Agent Carter fanfic. (I have five work-in-progress AC fics on my computer – possibly the fact that I am so invested in this show makes it harder for me to finish them!)


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